«Who are you? You need to get back to your seat!» he barked, stress radiating from him in waves.
Kate spoke fast and clear, cutting through the noise.
«Captain, I’m Kate Morrison, Air Force Captain, F-22 pilot, 3,000 flight hours, including emergency procedures and deadstick landings. I know aircraft systems, and I know how to handle emergencies. Tell me what’s happening, and maybe I can help.»
Captain Sullivan stared at her for one critical second, processing her words, then made a snap decision. They were going to crash anyway. What did he have to lose?
«Both engines failed simultaneously,» Sullivan said, his voice raspy. «We’ve tried everything. They won’t restart. We’re a glider now, and we’re losing altitude fast. We have maybe three minutes before we have to put this bird down somewhere, and there’s nothing but mountains below us.»
Kate leaned between the seats, her eyes darting across the instrument panel. Altitude, airspeed, descent rate, fuel flow, hydraulics. Her mind processed the data in milliseconds.
«What caused the dual-engine failure?» she asked.
The first officer answered without looking up from his controls, his focus entirely on keeping the wings level.
«We don’t know. It happened almost simultaneously. We think maybe contaminated fuel or a fuel system failure that cut flow to both engines.»
Kate’s mind raced, pulling up schematics and systems knowledge.
«Have you tried cross-feeding from the auxiliary tanks? Sometimes there’s clean fuel sitting there if the main system is contaminated.»
Captain Sullivan looked at her with a spark of surprise and hope.
«We haven’t tried that. Tom, reconfigure the fuel system. Try the AUX tanks.»
The first officer’s hands flew over the overhead panel, switching valves, rerouting fuel flow, and engaging pumps. Seconds ticked by like hours. The altitude counter kept scrolling down relentlessly. 8,000 feet. 7,000. 6,000. The jagged peaks of the mountains were getting uncomfortably close, filling the view.
«Come on, come on,» Kate whispered, watching the engine pressure gauges, willing the needles to move.
Nothing happened. The engines remained stubbornly dead. They had tried her idea, and it hadn’t worked. The silence of the turbines was deafening. The captain was scanning the terrain ahead desperately, sweat dripping down his temple.
«There. That valley,» Sullivan pointed. «It’s our only chance. It’s not flat, but it’s flatter than the mountains. I’m lining up for emergency landing.»
Kate looked where he was pointing. It was a narrow mountain valley with a patch of meadow, rocky and uneven but perhaps just long enough if they were incredibly lucky. It was their only option; everything else was solid rock.
«That’s your best bet,» Kate confirmed. «Do you want me to handle anything while you focus on flying?»
«Yes. Radio,» Sullivan commanded. «Tell air traffic control our position and situation. Then get on the emergency frequency and broadcast mayday. If we don’t make this landing, at least rescuers will know where to look for the wreckage.»
Kate grabbed the radio handset. Her voice was calm and crystalline, falling instantly into the clipped, precise professional tone of military communications.
«Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is commercial flight 831, Boeing 777, dual-engine failure, attempting emergency landing in a mountain valley approximately 40 miles northwest of Denver. On board 197 souls. Emergency crews, please respond to these coordinates.»
She read off their exact position from the GPS readout, her voice steady. A response came back immediately through the static.
«Flight 831, this is Denver center. We copy your mayday. Emergency services are being dispatched. What is your status?»
«We are attempting a deadstick landing in unsuitable terrain. Altitude 2,000 feet and descending. Passengers are braced for impact.»
Then, a different voice cut in on the emergency frequency—a voice that was sharp, aggressive, and distinctly military.
«Flight 831. This is Viper Lead of two F-22 Raptors on a training exercise in your area. We have visual on your aircraft. Say your current situation.»
Kate’s heart jumped in her chest. Fighter jets. Her people.
«Viper Lead, this is Flight 831. We have dual-engine failure, no thrust, attempting emergency landing. We are gliding with approximately one minute until touchdown.»
Captain Sullivan was wrestling with the yoke, trying to line up the heavy jet with the narrow valley floor. The plane was descending fast—too fast. They were carrying too much energy. They were going to overshoot the meadow or come in too steep and shatter on impact. Kate could see the geometry of the crash forming.
She grabbed the captain’s shoulder firmly.
«You’re too high and too fast. You need to increase drag immediately. Full flaps, full spoilers, gear down. Dump everything you’ve got to slow us down.»
The captain nodded, realizing she was right.
«Tom, deploy everything!»
The first officer pulled levers and punched buttons with desperate speed. Flaps extended fully, spoilers rose on the wings like air brakes, and the heavy landing gear dropped down and locked. The plane shuddered violently as air resistance increased. The descent rate accelerated, but their forward speed bled off rapidly. It might just be enough.
The F-22 pilot’s voice crackled back over the radio.
«Flight 831. We are following your descent. Be advised, you are approaching mountainous terrain. Recommend immediate—»
He stopped mid-sentence. They could all see it was too late for recommendations. The landing was happening now, whether anyone was ready or not. Kate moved behind the captain’s seat, bracing herself against the bulkhead but keeping her eyes on the rushing ground. The valley was racing up to meet them. Rocky terrain, scattered pine trees, uneven ground. This was going to be rough.
«Brace! Brace! Brace!» Captain Sullivan shouted into the cabin intercom, his voice booming.
Kate grabbed onto the back of his seat with both hands, her muscles tensed for the inevitable violence. The wheels hit first, slamming into the rocky ground with tremendous, bone-jarring force. The landing gear absorbed some of the initial shock but immediately collapsed under the strain.
The belly of the plane scraped the ground with a horrible, ear-splitting screech of metal tearing against rock. The aircraft bounced, hit again, and skidded sideways, plowing through the earth. Trees appeared ahead, and the left wing clipped them, shearing off with an explosion of debris and dirt. The plane spun, still sliding forward, throwing up a curtain of dust and rocks.
Kate was thrown against the wall, her shoulder hitting hard against the metal frame. Pain shot through her arm, but she held on, gritting her teeth. The cockpit was shaking violently, a chaotic blender of noise and motion. The windscreen cracked into a spiderweb of fractures. Alarms were blaring a discord of warnings. The pilots were fighting the controls, but the plane was no longer flying; it was crashing in slow motion.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably only fifteen seconds, the battered aircraft ground to a halt. The horrible screeching sound ended abruptly. For a moment, there was just silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic pinging of alarms and the settling of metal.
Captain Sullivan’s hands were shaking uncontrollably on the controls.
«Is everyone okay?» he gasped.
Kate checked herself quickly. Bruised, battered, shoulder throbbing, but nothing broken.
«I’m okay,» she replied breathless.
The first officer nodded, wiping blood from a cut on his forehead.
«I’m good.»
Then Captain Sullivan seemed to remember the passengers behind them. He grabbed the intercom handset.
«Evacuate! Everyone evacuate the aircraft now! Use emergency exits. Get away from the plane!»
His voice was hoarse but strong. Kate stood up, wincing at the sharp pain in her shoulder, and wrenched open the cockpit door. The cabin was a scene of chaos, but people were moving. Flight attendants were shouting instructions, heaving open emergency exits, and deploying the yellow inflatable slides.